Exposure
by liviafan1
Summary: Tonight is different. He can feel it in every trembling part of his body. It's time; it's finally time. Oneshot. Complete.


He should've gone home hours ago. She waved him off at 3 after they booked their suspect, but he ignored her, choosing instead to sit down in his usual spot, phone in hand.

He looks up every few minutes when he's sure he won't get caught so he can watch her furrow her brow or trace the lines of her mouth with the edge of her pen.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees her stretch over the back of her chair, arms raised above her head. When she lets out a little contented moan, he swallows hard, lets his eyes wander over the length of her body. She sits up abruptly and he whips his head back to the game in his hand. He feels her eyes on him and he knows he's been caught, but he doesn't say anything. It isn't until a few seconds later that he feels her lingering eyes turn back to her paperwork.

"You wanna grab dinner tonight, Castle? I'm almost done here."

He turns his game off, pockets his phone. "What are you in the mood for? I can just pick it up and we can eat here."

She sets her pen down, strangely silent. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, something he recognizes as a nervous gesture.

"Actually…" she trails off softly, lifts her head to meet his eyes. She hesitates, and his eyes flick to her mouth as she tugs her lip between her teeth.

"How about I make us dinner?"

He sucks in a breath. He's stunned, can't find the words to respond. _Yes. _God, yes.

Her face starts to contort into panic and he realizes he still hasn't said a word.

"I—Yeah." He sighs, smiles in embarrassment. "I'd love to."

"Yeah?" Her eyes light up and a small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

"I just need to run back to the loft for a few minutes."

She nods, flicks her wrist up to check her watch. "Seven sound good?"

"You need me to bring anything?"

She starts to blush and he swears he's never seen anything more adorable. "Bottle of wine?"

_Oh._

His breath hitches. "I think that can be arranged."

Her mouth twitches as she nods once and turns back to her paperwork. He's still for a moment, can't bring himself to move his feet away from her, not after what's just transpired.

"I'll see you at seven, Castle," she says with just the slightest hint of amusement.

"Right." He walks to the elevator in a daze.

A _date_.

A date with Kate Beckett.

_Kate _is making _him _dinner.

And she wants him to bring _wine_.

He can't get his mind around it, no matter how hard he tries. He wipes his clammy hands on his pants as his nerves flip inside his stomach.

* * *

><p>By the time he's changed and grabbed a bottle of his finest, he's sure he's reading too much into it.<p>

It was just dinner. And they've had wine before; nothing special. How many times had they shared a meal together at the precinct, at a restaurant, at his loft? Surely the switch in location didn't mean anything. A meal between friends to decompress after a long day.

That's all it is, right?

He sighs. He needs to stop overanalyzing. It's always been her and he's content to let her take the lead tonight.

He'll go anywhere as long as she's there.

* * *

><p>She's amazed at how relaxed she feels—almost as if she knows, can sense that it's finally the right time for the two of them.<p>

It's been on her mind the last few weeks and a topic of conversation at her recent therapy appointments. She's not scared of losing him and that's always what it's been about, hasn't it? Losing him to their relationship and partnership because they didn't know how to make things work, because _she _didn't know how to be her own person without her mother's murder.

Without _him._

The looks, the touches—she revels in them now. She smiles openly instead of trying to hide it behind her coffee cup. She grabs his hand in hers instead of pretending that it's an accidental brush of palms. She humors him more often, lets him get away with his wild theories because, now and again, he's right.

She'd been working up the nerve to ask him over for dinner for weeks now, but tonight finally seemed like the perfect opportunity.

Because _he_ was still hiding his looks.

She doesn't want him to have to hide anymore.

She almost puts on a dress, but doesn't know if she wants to give her motives away so soon, so she opts for her favorite pair of dark jeans and a purple silk blouse she bought last weekend.

She flicks on a local jazz station while she floats around the kitchen, vegetables scattered across cutting boards, water boiling in a pan on the stove, bread baking in the oven.

She hums, smiling to herself. She can definitely get used to this.

* * *

><p>He almost passes off the bouquet of flowers he's bought for her to a neighbor he passes on the stairwell. He can't help but feel as though he's overstepped. He's brought her flowers before, sure, but he's never been afraid of the implications, of what it could <em>mean<em>.

Tonight is different. He can feel it in every trembling part of his body.

When she opens the door, his breath catches in his throat. The shirt she wears (is it new?) clings to her body like it's made for her. Her hair is all natural, curls at every end. She looks soft, so soft. He wants to run his hands through her strands and kiss her pliant pink lips.

"Those for me?" she asks, tilting her head, smiling in amusement at his dazed expression.

"Uh, yeah." He hands her the bouquet, shivers as her long fingers brush his. She lifts the flowers to her nose, inhaling their perfume with closed eyes. He's lost in the way her eyelashes flutter against her cheek.

"They're beautiful. Thank you," she says softly. She steps aside to let him in. He can smell the scent of her perfume as he brushes past, reminds him of a field of sunflowers.

She walks towards the kitchen, turns her head back to him, pointing towards the table. "There's an ice bucket on the table if you want to get the wine chilling,"

He sets the wine in the bucket, watches as she pulls a vase from a cupboard beneath her sink and fills it with water. She brings it over to the table, unwraps the flowers from the plastic.

Apparently, he's content to stand awkwardly in the middle, watching her.

She chuckles at his stance, raises an eyebrow. "You can have a seat. I have the pasta straining now, so it should be ready in a few minutes."

"Sounds great." He shrugs his coat off and lays it across the back of the couch. He sits down, lets his eyes follow her graceful dance around the kitchen. His limbs fidget nervously and he can't seem to get comfortable.

He looks down at his offending hands that seem to have begun an anxious dance on their own.

"Castle," she says exasperatedly. He looks up to find her eyes looking over the state of his body, almost sympathetic. "This isn't going to hurt." She laughs.

He lets his face fall into his palms, groaning. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Maybe we should open the wine now. Loosen you up some," she teases.

He lifts his head, narrowing his eyes. "Sure. Make fun of me, Beckett. Go ahead."

She rolls her eyes. "Come on. Food's ready."

She reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a couple of plates, offering him one. He reaches for it, but she yanks it back.

"Sure I can trust you not to drop it?"

He narrows his eyes at her jab. "_That's_ just mean." She smirks and hands it back to him.

Feeling bold (and perhaps a _tad_ vengeful), he places both hands on her hips so he can maneuver around her. He lets his fingers slip through the silk of her shirt, notices how she stills under his touch. He smirks to himself as he begins to pile the pasta on his plate, happy that he's unnerved her, if only for a moment.

"Where do you keep your wineglasses?"

"Cabinet above your head." He grasps the stems between his fingers and carries them to the table along with his plate.

He frowns as he pulls out his chair, finds her manuscript copy of _Heat Wave_ he'd wrangled for her after it was finished.

He holds it up, the question on his lips as she carries her own plate of food to the table.

"I was reading it earlier, must've forgot I put it there." She shrugs.

He frowns. "I thought you bought it."

She takes a sip of her wine and pulls out her chair to sit down. "I did."

"Yet you're reading the manuscript?"

"Yes." She sighs. "Where are you going with this?"

"It's just—you have a perfectly good copy of this book, but you're reading this one? It's just kind of, odd, I guess." He sets it on the table, away from the food and the wine and takes his place across from her.

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to shoot you."

He twirls his spaghetti around his fork. "Does this have to do with you being a fangirl?"

"Possibly," she says seriously. He clenches his jaw to keep it from dropping.

"I won't make fun of you."

"I know. Do you mind if we shelve this conversation until after dinner? I'm not dismissing it, but it's easier if I show you."

_Show_ him? He doesn't understand at all, but if she says they'll talk about it, then they will.

"This is delicious," he says simply, gesturing to his plate with his fork.

"Surprised?"

"I shouldn't be, but that Styrofoam temple seems to indicate that you live on take-out."

"More of a time constraint than anything. Why spend the time that I'm actually home to make dinner for one?"

She isn't looking for sympathy, he knows, and she doesn't want it. But he can't help the way his insides constrict at her words. Surely, she must be sick of dinner for one. Maybe he can convince her to join him for dinner for two more often, even dinner for three, or four.

Although, if tonight is any indication, she won't need much convincing.

* * *

><p>When they're finished, he clears away the dishes and places them in the sink. He pours in a dollop of dish soap and lets the water run hot.<p>

He feels a warm hand on his back and turns to meet her gaze.

"I didn't invite you over here to wash the dishes, Rick," she says softly.

He swallows hard, reaches down to brush his fingers through the locks that dangle on her shoulder. "Then why did you invite me over here, Kate?"

She leans over him and turns the faucet off. She reaches down and takes his hand in hers.

"I wanna show you something."

She leads him back to her bedroom, flicks on the light. "I keep some of my books in the living room on the shelf, but I don't keep all of them there."

She turns to him, takes a deep breath. She squeezes his hand gently. "I don't keep _your_ books there."

Oh.

He follows her to an armoire that stands beside her bed. Her fingers grasp the handles and he watches her hesitate, struggling with something.

"I know it looks like I'm hiding them, as if—as if I'm ashamed. But…" she trails off, shakes her head. "They mean too much to me to share them with anyone else. Except you." She pulls the doors open and faces him again. "Because if anyone deserves to know, it's you, Rick."

They're there. _All of them_. He lets out a breath and reaches in, lets his fingers trace the spines.

"Kate," he breathes. She reaches in to wrap her fingers around his hand and moves it to grasp one of his earlier works.

"Open it," she commands gently.

Oh, but surely he would've remembered—

But there it is.

_To Kate—_

_Stay strong._

_Richard Castle_

"I signed it?" he rasps.

"Yeah. I waited in line for—God, must've been like four hours. But you did. You signed it."

"God, Kate, I don't remember. How could—"

"Shh." She shakes her head, places her fingers against his lips. "I don't expect you to remember, Castle. That's absurd."

"Then why—"

"Do you know when I started reading your books?" She asks quietly, her fingers caressing the ends of her hair, brushing against his ear. He wants to lean into her warm palm, keep her there forever, but he needs to hear this. He shakes his head.

His heart clenches as tears start to fill her eyes. She grips the book tightly. "This is for the life _you_ saved."

"Oh, Kate." His voice chokes as he reaches for her, his palms cradling her cheeks. He lets his head rest against hers.

"It's time, Castle. God, it's _finally_ time," she whispers before claiming his mouth. He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair as his other hand brushes down the side, through the silk of her shirt. He pulls her to him as he feels her sag into his body.

"I love you," she mumbles breathlessly against his lips. He drinks her in, nips at her bottom lip.

"Always," he murmurs.

* * *

><p>Later, when he's propped against her bed with her back leaning against him, he remembers their earlier conversation. He brushes his lips across her temple.<p>

"You never answered my question earlier." She shifts her head to his shoulder, looks up at him curiously. "Why the manuscript?"

She blushes. "I, uh, wanted to preserve the hardback."

He laughs. "My God, you _are _a fangirl."

She narrows her eyes. "Just for that, I am gonna make you wash the dishes."

"Mmm. If it makes you feel any better, I'm _your _biggest fan."

She leans up to kiss him. "That's very sweet," she mumbles against his lips. She pulls away and slaps his cheek lightly. "But you're still washing the dishes."

* * *

><p><em>This is almost what I had in mind when I set out to write Recovery, plus the added fangirl inspiration from the gifset floating around Tumblr.<em>

_Olivia_


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